Adventures in the North
by CutelittleMouseygirl
Summary: Ongoing Sequel to "A Civil War Tale" that documents the life of Jason G. Jones, former confederacy and southern state representative while in New York among the other nations. OC-centric, in fact, from the POV of my OC. Also, the opinions voiced by my OC and other characters within may not reflect my own.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Due to me doing whatever the heck I feel like, here's the sequal to "A Civil War Tale" which introduced the stubborn, ignorant former Confederate States of America, Jason G. Jones. But y'all can call him J.G. To give a synopsis to new readers, J.G. grew up in the atmosphere of the pre-civil war south, and didn't know he represented a nation until America found him right after the war. He married Belarus, whom he met at his first UN conferance, and they have a six-year-old daughter, named Maribel. At the end of "A Civil War Tale," the family decided to move to New York because of the better schools there, as opposed to the one in South Carolina that tried to tell Maribel evolution was a lie.**_

_**This will likely be an ongoing story, which I upddate when I have the motivation and time to do so. With my Juinor year in high school coming to an end in June and senior year on my doorstep, I don't know how much time I will have. I received many great reviews on "A Civil War Tale," and I hope those followers enjoy this just as much.**_

_**With regards,**_

_**CutelittleMouseygirl**_

* * *

_Country roads_

_Take me home_

_To the place..._

_I belong_

I'd been tellin' the whole story of the Civil War and the school and Fredrickson Plantation and everything the whole car ride across the country from Palmito. Of course, we didn't start there, we lived in Allan, South Carolina for a while, but that's a long story in itself, how I happened to end up with my wife and kid in Texas, when we're movin' to New York.

My story takes Maribel and Nat through the next week we're drivin'. Lil' six-year-old Maribel loves the stories of the brave soldiers marchin' through the south to fight for their rights and beautiful Belarus-born Natasha loves to hear things she didn't know I'd done. We stop at a bridge in Pennsylvania and I point out the guardrail that's been patched up a while.

"Maribel, there's where yer mama and me got into a car wreck before you were born. It was icy and we went right over the side into the water."

"Were ya scared?" She asks. I just laugh.

"Maybe a bit, but I've been through worse."

"Like when the yankee boys shot yer leg off with their cannon?"

"Exactly. Smart girl, rememberin' that." I say, rufflin' her hair. She's wearin' a pink dress with a shiny pink headband and shiny black shoes and stockings with little ruffles at the tops. Her hair, pale blond, straight and shiny like Nat's comes down to about her chin in a neat cut all around her head. She's got my eyes, though. A real pale sky blue, like a wintery color. She's also got freckles specklin' her cheekbones just like mine. She ain't got my golden blond hair, though, which I find a bit of a shame, not that her mama's hair ain't beautiful.

"Hey, Maribel... when we git back to the car, y'wanna hear how I met yer mama?" I ask her.

"Yeah!" She cheers. Maribel really likes hearin' stories, I notice. Maybe I'm just a good storyteller. Or maybe she's just an excitable six-year-old with an interestin' daddy.

* * *

Soon, we're pullin' into the small trailer park. I don't much trust those places, but I hear they got a good sense of home, once you're used to it. The trailer we now own is small, but it's got two bedrooms, and the water is clean, so I'm real happy.

"Wowie, Nat, we even get a picnic table!" I say, pointin' at the thing in the back area.

"I thought you did not want to be thought of as hillbilly." Nat observes.

"We ain't hillbilly, we're redneck!" Maribel chirps. Nat sighs.

Soon, we've got the movin' men unloadin' everything into the house and even unpackin' it for us, as Alfred paid 'em to do. I decide to take Maribel around the city for a walk. We're pretty close to a subway station and a park, so I take her by there. There's only one other kid on the playground and she's real familiar, with her brown hair down to her chin and her light blue dress.

"Hey, I think I know her," I tell Maribel.

"Really?"

"Yeah. She's a nation, like us." Bein' a nation means that you're a special kind'a person. Nations like me and Nat and Maribel live forever. I'm only about a hundred-fifty, which is like a baby as far as most of the others like me. Nat is over a thousand years. We both look the same age, though, that bein' about nineteen. Another thing about nations is we heal from most any injury we ever get. We also re-grow our arms and legs, which made me think I'd died back before I knew anything of nations and my leg, blasted off by a cannon, was back good as new when I woke up.

Almost good as new. I still got a thick scar all around my thigh 'bout halfway up it, and probably some damage to the nerves, as the leg will up and quit workin' on me if I strain too hard for too long. It only took me one time of gettin' trapped under a heavy metal beam to stop doin' that when I work on construction sites. Maribel, one day, went to bed as a lil' four-year-old, and woke up havin' jumped to six, as some nations do. Alfred, had jumps in his age, even if I didn't and grew up steadily my whole life.

Alfred's the entire country of America, and I came about durin' the time before the Civil War, in which the southern states se-ceded and made their own country- the Confederate States of America, which was me. Even if my poor lil' country got beat up and re-cons'ructed, Alfred thinks I ain't faded away yet 'cuz I won't as long as there's people who proudly claim they got confederate heritage and therefore must be rebels by blood. I'm one such people, and even if Nat says I shouldn't, at least not in New York, I'm intendin' to put my confederate flag outside our trailer in the yard, just like back on the farm in Allan.

Lettin' go of Maribel's hand, I call out to the brown-haired girl playin' on the swingset, "Elise! Elise DeBoer!" She turns and looks at me, startled. She don't recognize me at first, but then she grins,

"South-Mister? I haven't seen you in forever!" She notices Maribel soon after, "Who are you?"

"I'm Maribel and he's my daddy!" She says, pointin' at me.

"Well, I'm Elise, and my daddy's gone at the market right now, so I'm playin' in the park!"

"What kinda market? Like a farmer's market?" Maribel asks.

"I'm not s'posed to tell you, 'cuz you might tell the policemen and they'll take me away from daddy and put me in the foster home." Elise replies. I just sigh.

"Say, Elise, where do you live?" I ask her.

"East 109th street station." She says.

"Hmm, that's right near us. Hey Maribel, I think you just found a new friend." I tell her. Strange that Elise would name the subway station nearest to her when asked for her address. I brush it off as a lil' kid bein' a lil' kid and move on. Another dad and his kid are comin' our way, and it's pretty clear from the "Danger: Too awesome for you" shirt and messy silver-white hair that it's Gilbert Beilschmidt, the pervert who tried to get me drunk and take advantage of me back at the very first UN conference I went to, in 2001, right after the terrorist attack here in New York. I decide to sit on a bench nearby and keep an eye on Maribel and the unsupervised Elise.

"Marina! Marina!" Elise calls out, and the girl Gilbert's with takes off over there, with her own silver-white hair flyin' behind her just like the blue button-down shirt she's wearin' as a sorta jacket. Marina's also wearin' khaki cargo shorts and blue and red rainboots, and under her jacket she's got a yellow t-shirt on.

"What is it?" She asks. Gilbert's headin' for a bench. Always the perfect example, he's got a beer bottle in hand.

"New girl. Her name's Maribel. She's southern." Elise says.

"Hi." Maribel says to the newcomer.

"Hi! I'm Marina, and my Vati over there is the most awesomest Vati in the world!" She talks a little bit like Gilbert, but like she also grew up talkin' English too. The way a Mexi-can kid'll have a lil' accent from listenin' to their parents talk and talkin' Spanish, but they mostly talk English 'cuz they're at school all the time.

"How awesome is he?" Maribel asks. "What's he do? My daddy's a con-s'ruc-shun worker."

"He's so awesome he doesn't even need to work for money! He just sits around and talks to strange girls all day, and makes me go to _Onkel_ Ludwig's house to pick up money!" Marina says proudly. I just snort. Silly girl, don't know nothin' yet. Soon she'll learn her daddy's nothin' but a disgustin' deadbeat. Bet lil' Miss Marina got dumped on Gilbert by one of those "strange girls" when she was a baby, too.

"My daddy sells things I'm not allowed to talk about." Elise says.

"What's yer bunny's name, Elise?" Maribel asks. Elise holds up the raggedy stuffed rabbit.

"Her name's 'nent-yey.' but it's spelled N-E-N-T-J-E. It's a Dutch name, like mine is, and like Daddy's too." She says. "What about your dolly, Maribel?"

"Her name's Sarah-Anne. I guess it's a southern name, 'cuz that's where I'm from." Maribel replies.

"My birdie's called 'An-keh' which is spelled like A-N-K-E which is one letter away from German for 'thank you'." Marina says, holdin' up the dirty stuffed duckling.

Just then Gilbert finds me and sits on the bench next to me and puts his arm around my shoulder, makin' me get close to him. I don't like it and glare in front of me and tense up to make him stop, but he ain't gettin' the hint.

"Heyyy! I haven't seen you in forever, _kleiner Amerikaner._"

"There's probably a good reason fer that." I tell him, shovin' his arm away. He just puts it right back.

"So, the pretty little girl in pink yours? I bet Antonio'd love to have her at his daycare!" Gilbert says.

"Are you advertisin' yer friend to me?" I ask.

"Not really, but he does watch nation-kids for free!" He says, pullin' me closer.

"Gilbert, git off'a me." I growl at him.

"Hmm... _Nein._" He says, his hand gettin' too low on my back for , he freezes.

"Gilbert, you really were not goink to mess with my husband, were you?" Nat asks him.

"No, of course not!" He squeaks.

"Good, because if you were, I would have had to call my big brother and tell him all about it, and you know he does not like it when his sisters' lovers are messed with by scum like you." She says, her face dark and threatnin'. I scoot away in a hurry and so does he, and that's how we stay, Gilbert and I, on opposite sides of the bench. I dunno why Gilbert follows what Nat says so well, but I'm glad he does.


	2. Chapter 2

We've been livin' in the North for a whole year now. It's summertime again, and New York is still freezin' by my standard. Nat says it's nice to not have to pay the air conditionin' as much, but I wish I did. I miss my lil' farm and the lazy summer days there more and more with each 75 degree day. Plus, how do I know my house ain't been knocked down in a twister? Alfred says the folks he's got workin' down there'd tell me, but I dunno about that.

I'm feelin' a lil' bit out of it when I get back from my work, after pickin' Maribel up from daycare. The Happy Tomato Daycare center's run by Antonio Fernández Carriedo, who is the nation of Spain, which as far as I got from Nat tryin' to e'splain to me is just European Mexico. He watches nation kids for free, which is nice. I guess he ain't a pedo-phile after all, as they ain't allowed to have daycare licenses which he does. Still kinda creeps me out, though. Maribel likes him, at least, and her two friends, Elise DeBoer and Marina Beilschmidt go there too, and even though I only met Elise's daddy once, I trust he wouldn't let a pedo-phile babysit his kid. I dunno about Gilbert, seein' as he'd probably let his friend look after Marina no matter what.

Either way, I'm feelin' out of it, not really sick, but tired and outta breath just from walkin' from the car to the house, and Nat looks over at me when I walk in the door and she goes,

"J.G., you don't look so good. I'm goink to get the thermometer." and walks off to get the thing and Maribel looks at me and asks,

"Didn't'cha git yer shots, Daddy? 'Cuz then you won't git the real bad sickies like smallpox and measles!" She must be a Southern state 'cuz she still talks like me and not her yankee friends and person-cations don't lose their accents, no matter how long they live in a different place. I just sigh at her.

"Maribel I think you mean chicken pox and I already got that and measles when I was about yer age, so it ain't that." I tell her. Then Nat's back with the thermometer and she sticks it in my mouth 'til it beeps at her and then she tsks and says,

"You're runnink temperature of 101.2 American. Is that high?" Nat don't say "ferenheit," she says "American." She lost the cute quirk where she said it "amm-err-i-ken" on account of livin' here for so long, but that's okay.

"Yeah," I say, "I'm s'posed to be around 98-point-somethin'." Just then I go into a real bad coughin' fit and Nat helps me get my jacket off.

"I think you are sick. Go to the bed, now." she says. I don't argue.

* * *

_I'm in the water, it's a river, maybe the Mississippi that I used to play in back durin' the Civil War, and it's murky and cool, and I'm pullin' for the surface all I can and I ain't makin' it, and I'm runnin' outta breath and I still ain't even close and I can't draw my breath 'cuz there's water and I'm outta breath now and I'm breathin' water and tryin' to cough it back out and then I'm awake..._

"Jason, cough!" Nat says, sittin' me up. I still can't breathe. _Good Lord I can't breathe..._ I'm tryin' to pull air in, but it ain't goin' in, not nearly enough, and it feels bubbly and raspy in my chest, but I ain't thinkin' on that, I'm thinkin' on how _I can't breathe_ still and there's a pain in my chest, and I wonder if I'm havin' a heart attack, and I don't think I am but I might be, and Nat's whackin' me on the back, shoutin' across the house,

_"Mari-bel, hosovenyet-sota-genyevsnet!"_

And my vision's gettin' fuzzy and the last thing I hear is Maribel goin'

"My daddy's real sick and ain't breathin' right and my mama's tryin' to help him, we live in Cityscape Homes right by the 109th street subway..." into the house phone.

And then I'm passed out 'cuz I still couldn't breathe...

I wake up and feel somethin' in my throat, and I can't breathe, but I sorta can, and I feel like I'm gonna gag on whatever it is. I try to call out for help, but I can't make a sound, with the machine suckin' air outta me and forcin' it in. Instead, I hear a loud beep from the machine and a young woman in a nurse's white uniform hurries over and looks at me carefully.

"J.G., do you know where you are?" she asks. I shake my head just a lil' bit and start to reach up to get the tube from my mouth that's makin' me feel like I'm suffocatin'. The nurse stops me, "You might hurt yourself if you pull that out. I'll take it away as soon as all the fluid is drained from your lungs, in about five minutes. As for where you are, you're in the ICU- Intensive Care. Your daughter called the ambulance when you stopped being able to breathe." she says.

I feel a pain in the side of my chest and I look over and see a clear plastic tube full of golden brown liquid that's goin' into a lil' bag that's about a quarter full. The other end's goin' inside my chest, and I yelp the best I can and try to squirm away. Nurse stops me again.

"That tube is taking the infected fluid out of your lungs so you don't get sicker." she tells me. I've got another tube in my hand, too. In my throat, in my chest and in my veins, I got tubes to spare right now. I hate that I can't control my breathin', and I hate the way the tube in my chest feels like it's shiftin' and gonna stab me whenever I squirm and I ain't never goin' to the doctor again. Ever.

Soon, Nurse leaves and a doctor comes in and smiles, says, "I'm Doctor Samson and I'm going to take those tubes out of you." and presses some buttons on the breathin' machine. The air-pumpin' stops. The doctor grabs the tube right at my mouth, holds my chin with a hand to keep me down, and with a gag from my throat takes the tube out. I take a raspy, bubbly breath on his instruction and he frowns with an ear on my chest. He soon comes back with a big tank and a mask and puts the mask on my face. It smells like plastic and the metal part on top kinda sits heavy on my nose. I cough a hard, dry sound and gasp loud and hard to get enough air, almost soundin' like I got whoopin' cough, I think, and he works a lil' faster to turn a knob on the tank. I feel air kinda softly blow on me and I feel like I'm gettin' enough now, so I kinda patiently look at him and hope he gets this damn tube outta my chest soon.

"J.G., we need to figure out what happened to you." Nat says. I mess with the mask givin' me air that covers my mouth and nose. I can talk fine with it on, unlike the thing I woke up in the ICU in, with a tube down my throat makin' my chest rise and fall and another _in_ my chest to get the 'fected stuff out, but I don't really wanna talk too much even if I can, as I get outta breath real easily right now.

"What'd they say was wrong?" I ask, in a breathy way. I'm still in the hospital, with this stupid-lookin' mask on, and Maribel usin' a colorin' book in the corner.

"Pneumonia, as a complication from a malaria parasite's wvhatever-endoma-" Nat stops as I give her a really confused look, "When you got malaria the bad bugs stayed in you and then just now they got in your lungs and made them get fluid in them and the fluid got germs in it and so the lungs stopped workink." She 'splains simply.

"Ugh..." I say.

"Ugh is right." Nat agrees, "Nation do not just get pneumonia and need to go to the ER for it. We usually repair ourselves before that point. Somethink awful must have happened in your part of the country."

I turn on the TV and there's news- A hurricane hit Louisiana. A big one. I cough and the air-machine buzzes at me 'cuz it don't like it when I make air go into it instead of into me. Luckily, the hurricane, Katrina, they're callin' it, didn't seem to hit South Carolina, and so my farm is safe. I wonder if Alfred's feelin' it and I bet he ain't, not nearly as much as me.

"Oh no..." I breathe in regards to the news.

"No wonder you are so sick." Nat says. "You will probably be better once the floods stop."

"Yeah..." I breathe again.

I am better, in a couple weeks. For a year after, though, I'm gonna have to carry a in-haler in case I get somethin' that I can't breathe. Floods as bad as Katrina really mess a nation up.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sir, why do you happen to be carrying a rifle on your back in our store?" The man with "SECURITY" on his vest asks me.

"Protestin' my right to bear arms of course." I tell him.

"You're scaring the other customers, because you have an assalt rifle, possibly loaded, in a WalMart." He says.

"Well it's my right to if I wanna." I tell him."And besides, the safety's on."

"Sir, please just leave."

This ain't workin', so I just walk away. The security guy follows me.

"What exactly are you trying to gain?" He asks.

"I'm tryin' to prove a point." I reply.

"What is that point?"

I think about it for a while. "I dunno, but it's a good one."

"Glad to hear. Is your point possibly that people with guns aren't crazy and dangerous?"

"Yeah. That sounds about right." I agree.

"Well, it's kind of crazy to just walk into WalMart for no reason with a rifle strapped to your back, don't you think?" He says.

"Hmm. Maybe." I agree. Now that I think about it, this was kinda a stupid idea, and I actually forgot what I was tryin' to do.

"Well, why don't you go home with your rifle and think about it." The security guy says.

Thus, outsmarted by WalMart security, I'm kicked out. Again. Yankees just don't like it when they find you got a concealed weapon permit, I swear. And they hate it even more when you carry a gun into the stores, even though back in Allen I could go from huntin' in the woods right into the grocery with my shotgun still with me. I've been livin' in New York for years now and this still happens. Stupid gun-hatin' liberals.

Maribel has stopped gettin' older, along with her two friends, the half-nation Elise and born-by-pervert Marina. They're all about seven now, and the schools don't really question the fact they've been in the system for about ten years. I ain't got any older either, as is in my nation nature. Maribel don't seem to represent nothin', which Nat says could happen, since I ain't really a country anymore. I think she's one of the states. Maybe. If she is, I bet it's South Carolina.

I've got a cell phone now, one of the fancy ones with a touch-screen. Accordin' to Alfred it's way out-dated, but I think as long as it ain't broken, I'm gonna keep my lil' iPhone.

Right now, though, my protest attempted and failed, and two hours before I'm expected home, I'm gonna get to the bottom of some things. The first thing is I'm gonna follow Elise DeBoer home, 'cuz she won't accept rides even though she lives in kinda a bad neighborhood, and she won't tell me her address. It might be strange to be followin' a six-year-old girl, but I'm gonna do it anyway.

* * *

First, Elise goes off into an alley, and I really quietly follow. Then she heads for the subway station, and goes down the broken-down steps and into the old tunnels. I follow as quiet as I'm able. In the dark, I can see another form down there, which must be her daddy. I start to leave, thinkin' maybe I shouldn't'a done it, but then he says,

"Wait. Did you follow Elise?" and I turn around.

"Yeah... I was just kinda worried, since she plays with my daughter and won't tell me where she lives, is all." I tell him.

"We live here." he says, "I'm trying to make enough for us to have an apartment, and I nearly have it, but for much of Elise's life we have lived in the tunnel."

"And we aren't homeless, 'cuz the tunnel's our home!" Elise says, standin' right in front of me. Her daddy lights a battery-powered lantern and I can see, on the concrete platform, a bunch of blankets. On one side of the pile is Elise's stuffed rabbit, a battered lil' rolling suitcase and a notebook with some crayons by it. On the other side is a bigger suitcase which must be Mr. DeBoer's. Far by the wall is a potted plant with a tarp over it so I can't see what kind it is. I ask Elise,

"What kinda plant is that y'all got? And for that matter, Elise, why ain't you at daycare?"

She turns to look at the plant for a moment and then looks back to me.

"It's my pet plant, Joey. I'm not allowed to tell you what kind he is, though. I'm not at daycare 'cuz Daddy's home today!" she says. I walk closer to her father.

"Look, a lil' girl like her shouldn't be livin' in a subway tunnel. Can't you send her to live with her mama or somethin'?"I ask of him as Elise goes to do her homework or draw or something.

"Her mother died just after she was born, and it wouldn't help, as we were both on the streets at the time." he says.

"Foster care, then?"

"I will not give my daughter up to a system that breeds bad children." he says.

"Now how do you know that system breeds bad kids?" I ask.

"Being here, I have heard stories of teenagers stealing and selling drugs. They are mostly either white middle class kids, or dirt-poor foster kids. I will not let my daughter become one of them." he answers.

"Well... I'd adopt her. She's real cute. Antonio might take care of her, since they're 'best friends' and all." I suggest.

"I would never let that pervert live with my daughter." he says.

"Why's he a pervert? Perverts ain't allowed to have licences, right?" I ask.

"Only if they're caught." Mr. DeBoer tells me. I leave the tunnel newly suspicioned about Antonio.

* * *

"J.G., where were you?" Nat asks. I shrug.

"WalMart."

"Why?"

"'Cuz." Nat don't like it when I tell her about my protests. She thinks it's dumb. I disagree. We usually just don't talk about it.

"You have to have some sort of reason. I know you prefer little stores to WalMart if you can help it."she says. I shrug.

"They're big and I can get lost in big stores."

"Well, anyway, go pick Maribel up from daycare, alright?"she tells me, "I have to stay here and finish dinner, because I know you will not."

With that, I'm off to Happy Tomato Daycare.

* * *

**_A/N: Don't carry assault rifles into WalMart, please._**


	4. Chapter 4

Maribel acts like she ain't seen me in a month when I come in the door, all runnin' from across the classroom to hug me, and when I ask her about it she kinda shrugs and says, "I dunno, guess I was just happy t' see you."

She's been actin' like this for a while, kinda listless and clnging onto me. I thought at first maybe she was just gettin' older and as such changin' in her personality, but now I ain't so sure. Maybe she's just in a mood. That happens to girls, don't it? So I smile at her in the car seat next to me and tell her,

"I think we're gonna stop and get ice cream. You want some?"

She kinda nods, lookin' out the window. Finally, she says,

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?" I reply.

"I don't wanna go to daycare no more." Ah, so that's it. Probably some kid's bein' mean to her, or she's goin' through a phase where she thinks it's babyish to go to a daycare with kids as young as two-month-old babies. I was scared for a moment, thinkin' of what I think about Antonio bein' a bad sorta person, but I 'spose it's just the daycare she don't like.

"Well you gotta, 'cuz six ain't old enough fer you to be at home alone. I know I wasn't left alone ever when I was that little." I tell Maribel. I glance over at her, sulkin' against the window, and ask, "Anyway, why don't you wanna go? Don't'cha wanna play with yer friends every day?"

"I jus' don't." She says, "And 'sides, I ain't allowed to say why even if I was gonna."

That makes my blood run cold. Why wouldn't Maribel be able to tell me why she don't wanna go to daycare? Maybe the bullies are bigger kids who threatened her real bad. I resolve to ask for a conference with Antonio to make sure she ain't bein' bullied no more.

* * *

Antonio is sittin' at the table with me and Nat, smilin' in his usual way. Lovino, his assistant, is sittin' there too, holdin' a sleepin' baby.

"So, J.G.," Antonio starts, "why did you want to come see me about?"

I cross my arms. "I think Maribel's bein' bullied. Prob'ly by bigger kids." Antonio looks concerned, as does Lovino, but I think that might be 'cuz the baby just woke and started whimperin' in the way of a kid who's gonna cry. Lovino leaves the table, mutterin' _sorry, he's kinda pissy when he just woke up_ as he does.

"Really? What did she say?" Antonio asks.

"She'd been actin' kinda out of it so I asked her what was wrong. She said she don't wanna go to the daycare no more, and when I asked why she said she ain't gonna tell me and ain't allowed to even if she was." I lean forward on the table, "So I think some bigger kid was bein' terrible to her and told her to not tell or else."

"I'll keep an eye on her, and the bigger kids too, okay?" Antonio agrees. "On that note, since it's nearly summertime again, would Maribel like to be in the summer daycamp this year?"

Antonio hosts this daycamp for girls five to ten durin' the summer. It's a lot more wholesome than the stupid Girl Scouts Maribel and her friends go to now. They let a lil' boy in just 'cuz he said he felt more like a girl and the Boy Scouts were bein' mean. I ain't never heard of such a thing, a lil' kid just decidin' they don't like what they were born as so becomin' somethin' else. 'Sides, what does he know about who he is, bein' all of seven?

"Yes, Maribel'll go to the camp." I tell him.

"Does she want to be in mine or Lovi's group?" I don't really trust Lovino, mostly 'cuz he's I-talian and as such probably in the mafia. I bet he's even a mob boss. I don't want my kid around that, so I just say,

"Yours, of course."

"Alright. I'll put her on the records. And I'll keep an eye on her. Maribel's very cute and smart, and she certainly doesn't deserve to be treated badly!"

Good. Hopefully Maribel's opinion on daycare will improve if she ain't bein' bullied.


	5. Chapter 5

Nat wants me to go to the international market by our house to get some kinda meat. I dunno why she can't just get it at the grocery store like a normal person, but she can't, and since she "has to start the other things for dinner and knows I won't," here I stand in front of the sign. The only bad thing about our neighborhood is all the immigrant families. Nat says it ain't that bad, but can I help it if I don't want Maribel growin' up around all these wetbacks (which is another thing Nat says I gotta stop sayin' outloud)?

I go into the shop, and there's an old man sweepin' up and I ask him where the meats are and he looks at me blankly,

_"Que?"_

"Meats." I say, "Like, beef, and pork, and chicken?" If Nat had agreed that puttin' the grill inside 'cuz just 'cuz it's cold and nasty out don't mean I don't like ribs was a good idea, then I wouldn't be in this situation.

_"¿Tienes un problema?"_ the girl who came up behind me asks. Without thinkin' I go,

"No, Miss, no problems. I just need ground beef," but the strange thing I realize right after I say it is _I don't speak Spanish._ She must not've seen my shocked look I gave when I understood her 'cuz she switches into English right after.

"Ah, Sorry about Papi... he's kind of... well, he doesn't like to speak English." she shakes her head in sorrow at Papi's unwillingness to talk in English. "Groud beef, you say? It's this way. How much do you need?" she asks as I walk after her.

"A pound and a half. My wife's makin' tacos tonight and she sent me here on my way to get my kid from daycare." I say. The girl smiles at me as she scoops the meat from the display case.

"Aren't you a little young to be married with a kid?" I get this a lot, so I just shrug.

"How old do I look to you, then, miss?"

"You look like you're my age, and I'm a senior at the high school." she says, "And also not an old lady, so you can cut it with the 'miss'."

"I'm older than you by a lot." I tell her, "And I'm sorry fer bein' polite, it's just how my mama taught me, miss." I finish.

"Hm. I guess I have heard that southern boys do talk like that. Anyway, here's your meat," she says, "and Papi! _La próxima vez que venga una persona idiota blanco, échenlo!_" which automatically in my mind means "next time he's here, kick the idiot white person out!" I'm still kinda shocked that I know Spanish for some reason, so I just leave without callin' her on it.

* * *

I go and pick Maribel up next. She comes runnin' from across the room again and I wave at Lovino to sign her out. As he's doin' it, I crouch down to Maribel's level and ask her,

"Which of them boys done it?"

She blinks and looks at me, sayin', "What'dya mean?"

"Which of 'em's bein' mean to you, is what I mean." I tell her.

"None of 'em's bein' mean no more, Daddy... I'm just... happy, is all." She says, lookin' behind her real quick like I won't notice. I look over her shoulder where she glanced, and Antonio waves at me, one of the babies in his other arm. He must'a been changin' the kid when I came in and that's why Lovino was the only one there. Maribel must've heard the door open and looked to see if it concerned her. Now I dunno why I would'a thought otherwise.

"Well, alright. But if any of 'em are, I'm gonna go in myself and teach 'em a lesson." I say this loud enough that the rest of the kids there can hear me. They don't pay me no mind.

"Alright, Mr. Jones. Your little miracle is free to go." Lovino says. I nod at him and lead Maribel out. Somethin' I didn't notice before catches my eye.

"Maribel, why're you limpin'?" I ask her. I see somethin' flicker across her face, maybe fear, but maybe it's just my imagination made by my suspicions of Antonio and his daycare.

"I fell at recess, is all." She tells me.

"Alright. Why didn't Lovino tell me about that?" I ask. Antonio is always happy to give me a full list of what Maribel did all day. He's always tellin' me about what a cute and smart kid she is, too.

"Dunno. Guess he didn't see." She says, leanin' against the window again. Warnin' bells are goin' off all over my head right now. I try to organize the reasons for 'em, too, 'cuz I do admit sometimes I over-react, 'specially concernin' Maribel.

_1\. She told me she don't wanna go to daycare no more and says she ain't allowed to say why not._

_2\. She ain't got better, even after Antonio said he'd keep an eye on her to git the bullies away._

_3\. She's been actin' real clingy to me lately, and I'm usually the one to pick her up, so it ain't like she ain't seen me all day._

_4\. She's limpin' and don't wanna talk about why._

All these things connect in my brain to say that someone is hurtin' my baby girl. It ain't another kid, neither. Alright. It's time to talk to Nat about this seriously.

* * *

"Hey, Nat?" I ask her that night, after Maribel's gone to bed.

"Yes?"

"Two questions." She sighs a bit, clearly expectin' somethin' stupid.

"Fire away."

"One: Can our kind just understand languages or somethin'? I was in the store today and the girl was speakin' Spanish and somehow I knew what she was sayin' even though I don't know the language." I ask Nat. She shrugs.

"Nations cannot understand languages on our own. You must have picked it up somewhere, maybe as a child, and cannot speak, but understand it."

Strange. As for my second question, the real important one:

"Nat... do you think Maribel's been molested?" She looks at me really funny after I say that.

"J.G., is this about how you don't trust Antonio around children? Because I have known the man for a long time, and even if he did some questionable thing to the ones he colonized, he is a good person at heart."

"Yeah, but Maribel's been actin' weird, and today she was limpin'-" I start, but Nat interrupts.

"Look, Maribel is growink and changink in personaility like any other little girl. To even think such a thing as her being molested at daycare... J.G., is this all you think about? Ways to make other nations look bad?"

"No, I just-"

"I know, I know, you're just worried about Maribel, and all the other stuff. Jason, this backwards thinkink has to stop. Not everyone is out to hurt you or your family just because they don't look or act like you!"

With that, it's conversation over, case closed. Ain't no way anythin' bad's happenin' to Maribel, 'cuz Antonio's a good man. The End. I still have my suspicions, but Nat is probably right. She's known Antonio for a lot longer than me, after all.

He's a bit of an airhead, too, so maybe he ain't keepin' as close an eye as he could be on the other kids. Bullyin' is quiet, 'specially among girls, I hear. So, I can sleep now, knowin' that I was just probably overreactin' again, and Maribel's fine...

* * *

_"Francis, this is your son..." The woman standin' by me says. I look at the man in front of me, with his light blue coat and blond hair and blue eyes. The woman pushes me forward and says,_

_"He's a bit of a troublemaker, but means well. He's only a young nation yet, but he could be strong. He calls himself the Republic of Texas... My little republic..."_

I still dream about the Mex-i-can lady and the Frenchman sometimes, but ever since we moved to New York I ain't been dreamin' of my life at school or the war. So, it's like how it was all those years ago on Fredrickson Plantation, or Big Farm, where I dreamt of stuff I was sure I remembered, but probably didn't, 'cuz "people can't be republics." Now I ain't so sure.

"Hey, Nat?" I ask of her.

"What is it today?" She asks me back.

"Can a nation change what he represents? Like if yer one thing, can you become another once that one collapses?"

"Well..." She says, "I have never heard of a case of it happenink, but there are rumors that Ludwig used to represent the Holy Roman Empire before it collapsed. He doesn't remember enough about his childhood to confirm it. His memories allegedly start when he is about eight, beink found in a field by his brother, Gilbert."

"Huh." I say. My first memories are of runnin' through the woods as it gets dark, havin' been told to run 'til I couldn't run no more. Then comes curlin' up against a cabin, and a dark-skinned woman findin' me and pickin' me up. That was Sarah, the slave woman who raised me 'til I was eight and got sent to school. I was about five when she found me, she figured. Maybe four. Too little to be on my own for certain.

"How good can nations remember?" I ask Nat.

"Depends on the person. Arthur claims he can remember beink a baby in his mother's arms, when she died when he was only two. Kiku says he does not remember anythink before Yao found him in a bamboo forest as a three-year-old. We seem to have incredible memory skills, as we remember thing that happened thousands of years ago. Take that how you will." she replies.

"Does Arthur 'member what his mama looked like?" I ask. When I think about it, a woman with pale brown skin and dark green eyes and long black hair comes to mind as my mama. That can't be right, as a dark-haired woman never made a blond kid, not usually, at least.

"Actually yes. He's told us she had red hair and green eyes, the same shade as his, and eyebrows thick and dark like him too. His oldest brother Allistair, who was ten when their mother died, says it's accurate." she says.

"Any of the girl nations got black hair and green eyes?" I ask.

"Juanita does. She represents Mexico."

To think I might be part Mex-i-can, yuck. I probably ain't. Probably my mind just made up things that seem like memories. Maybe Arthur and Francis are my parents, like Alfred and... the other one. That ain't much better than the Mex-i-can girl, but I'd rather have that 'cuz at least then I'm pure American still.

Huh.

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry about being like three days late with the update. I've been sick. Bad cough. Home from school for two days. Nyquil and cough drops. That kind of thing. Also, if I post something iffy I'll warn at the beginning of the chapter from now on. One or two M-rated chapters does not earn an entire story an M-rating, right? Plus J.G.'s lack of descriptive vocabulary in his narrative drags the rating down a bit in the "graphic violence/sex/drug use" department. Point being, if I've seen or heard of it it in a movie rated PG-13, it's alright to be in here without bumping up the rating. (*acknowledges the fact that American PG-13 movies can get kind of bad without the rating being up*)**_


	6. Chapter 6

It's summer again, and that means Maribel's goin' to Girl Scouts on Saturdays, home on Sundays and babysat by Gilbert (not my choice) on Mondays and Tuesdays and Joel DeBoer (Elise's daddy, and still not my choice) on Wednesdays and Francis and Arthur on the others, after she gets back from whatever thing they did at Antonio's summer activity camp that day. It's tirin' for me, 'cuz I have to drive her to everything, 'cuz Nat can't drive and works. If she'd stay home like a normal wife, then we wouldn't have this problem.

I also don't like bein' the only dad at the Girl Scout meetings. I swear they think I'm a single parent tryin' to do good for my kid. True, if I was, I'd do it, but I ain't, and I don't like them assumin' things about me.

One day, though, I don't got work, 'cuz they still don't trust me outside of the machines on the worksite, and Maribel ain't got nothin' 'cuz Antonio's sick and there's no Girl Scouts, and Nat's at work, so we're just sittin' there with nothin' to do.

"Daddy, kin we do somethin'? I'm bored!" Maribel says, lookin' up at me.

"Well... whaddya wanna do?" I ask her. She sits there for a moment and thinks.

"We should... go on a trip. Tell Mama and Toni and Mrs. G. that we'll be back when we're back." she grins up at me, clearly thinkin' even more about this as she goes, "And we should take Marina and Elise, 'cuz they ain't never been on a real trip before! Elise ain't never even left the city!"

Well. My lil' girl's certainly got a sense of adventure in her, wantin' to travel. Most kids'd hate bein' in a car for days at a time, but when we drove from Palmito all the way to New York, she didn't complain, not once.

"But Maribel, I got work." I tell her.

"So? Call Mr. Grubbs and tell him yer sick, or... yeah! Tell him that yer gonna go on a spirit's journey, to find yerself in the mountain spirits, like the monks on TV!" she says.

"Hmm. Alright, but you gotta back me up." I tell her, makin' my face as serious as possible with the way I wanna smile. Maribel nods, just as serious as me. I take out my phone and hand it to her. "You tell Mr. Grubbs that I'm too sick with... I dunno, somethin' to talk to him, and I'll be back when I'm better, alright?"

"Hello, Mr. Grubbs?" She asks on the phone, "My name's Maribel Jones and my daddy J.G. got... ebola-swine-flu and can't talk to ya right now. He wants me to say that he ain't got an idea of when he'll be back, but it'll be when Dr. Mason says he's better 'nuff." She tips her head to one side, "Yes sir, ebola-swine-flu is a real thing, and a con-sit-able serious one, too!" she frowns a bit at the phone, "No sir, it ain't real ebola, thank Gods above, but it makes the same sickies as the real thing! Daddy's real lucky he ain't dead! He's gotta stay in bed, so he ain't comin' in fer a while! Thank'y fer understandin', Mr. Grubbs! Bye!" she looks at me and hands the phone back. "Did I do good?"

I grin at her. "You did real good. I raised up a good lil' actress, didn't I?"

"Now," she says, "I gotta go run to the tunnel and tell Mr. DeBoer that we're takin' Elise fer a while, and then to the East End Projects to tell Mr. Beilschmidt that we's takin' Marina, and-"

"Hey, hey, hey!" I say, grabbin' her arm. "You might be a good actress, but yer only six on the outside. Lemme go with you, 'specially by the projects. 'Member the bad men that'll hurt lil' girls?"

Joel is pleased that his kid'll get to travel, and Gilbert's glad to have the wild Marina off his hands for a while. He tells me people say she acts just like he did at that age. I beleive it. While the girl's are packin', I call Nat.

"J.G., what is it? I'm workink." she asks.

"I'm takin' Maribel and her two friends on a roadtrip. We'll likely be back in a couple weeks." I tell her. She sighs.

"I knew you wouldn't want to stay in the city for very long at a time." She says.

"So you ain't upset that I'm just leavin' with three six-year-olds in the car?"

"Gettink upset would not stop you, so I will not try." she says, simply.

"Well, thanks fer not gettin' mad." I tell her, "Love ya!"

"I love you too, J.G. Have fun on your trip."

So, with that, we're off on the road, first stop, checkin' up on Big Farm in South Carolina.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N: Sorry about the delay I have been sick, and actually am going to the doctor later today to see if I have bronchitis, so uh, yeah. Sorry for the delay! Also does anyone here think I should like, make a running mini-series interspersed throughout the chapters that like tells the story of J.G.'s years in the confederate army? I dunno it might be cool. Let me know!_**

* * *

"I see... Mississippi!" Marina says, pointin' out the dark blue car.

"No, that's Missouri!" Maribel says back.

"What's the difference?" Elise asks.

"Mississippi's here," Maribel points it out on Elise's tablet computer, which they're usin' for their lil' licence plate game, "and Missouri's here!"

"Well we still need Mississippi, and we don't have it." Marina argues.

"Nothin' ever got earned by cheatin', Marina." Maribel tells her friend.

"_Ja_, I know that. That's what the girl at the laundry mat told Vati." Marina says back. I sigh. I've seen about five Mississippi licence plates, but the girls told me I ain't allowed to play on the grounds of bein' an adult, thus makin' it unfair. Luckily, we've only got a few more hours 'til we're in Allen.

"Hey," I say, "who wants to stop fer dinner before we get to Allen?" They all cheer.

The fast food place is crowded, but there's a kid's play area which I learned is a must for Marina who ain't used to sittin' still for very long and don't much like it. She's like a rocket-powered bouncin' ball, that one, 'specially when she's been sittin' still for the last two hours. She's off to the play area instantly. Maribel and Elise stand in line with me, and Maribel soon tugs at my hand.

"What is it, honey?" I ask her.

"Can we stop at the capital buildin' in South Carolina? Elise don't belive that they still got yer flag up there!" she says. I look around and hope no one knows what she's talkin' about 'cuz I don't wanna get into an argument with a total stranger about whether or not I'm allowed to be proud of the lost Confederacy. Most of the nations just frown at me when I say it, but they know what bein' proud of their country no matter what is like, 'cuz it's still part of 'em. Humans will actually get in my face and really fight me over it, some of 'em. And I've only lost those fights a handful of times.

"Yeah, we'll stop. There's an old plantation, which I'd have to look up the name to, but we'll go see that too, so y'all can see what it was like." I promise her.

"Wowie! Do they got the slave houses and everything too?" she practically yells, makin' everyone look at me funny.

"She's been obsessed with the idea of slave life since she heard of it in school. Y'all know what lil' kids is like sometimes." I say and people roll their eyes and go back to their business.

"_Herr_ Jones!" Marina yells, comin' runnin' towards me, a little black boy followin' her. "He hit me!" she tells me, pointin' her finger at the kid, her lavender-colored eyes shinin' angrily. I dunno why her daddy's got red eyes, her uncle's got blue and she's got lavender. Must be from her mama.

"She pushed me first, Mister!" the kid says in his defense.

"You shouldn't be hittin' people, y'know." I tell the kid, "And Marina, you shouldn't be shovin' people."

"What's a stupid dirty n-" I clap my hand over Maribel's mouth before she can say what she was gonna say, but everyone knows what it was and they're all lookin' at me.

"Like I said, obsessed with slave life, even the language." I tell the crowd. I glare down at Maribel who's lookin' innocently at me with my hand still over her mouth. "Maribel, I told you to not use those words as they ain't kind, didn't I?" she nods. "Then you gotta say sorry to him fer doin' it." I uncover her mouth.

"I didn't git to finish so why do I gotta say I'm sorry?" she asks.

"'Cuz I said so." I tell her simply.

"Fine. Sorry fer almost callin' you a bad name." she tells the boy, "But nobody, 'specially not _yer_ kind is gonna git away with hurtin' my friend!"

_Oh, Lord..._ Everyone's glarin' extra hard at me now. It occurs to me just then, with everyone in the restaurant glarin' at me, that maybe opinions are changin' even in the South to be against my own. On the other hand, we're only in Pennsylvania, which in my book is still yankee territory.

"Hey... Maribel, if you shut yer mouth right now we'll go to another Civil War museum while we're in South Carolina." she puts her hands over her mouth and looks up at me. I look at the kid that hit Marina.

"Git outta here." I tell him. He scampers away. "And don't be hittin' my girls!" I call out after him.

"Er... three kids' meals and a double burger meal, right? So, here or to go?" the cashier asks me.

"To go." I tell her simply.

* * *

Eventually, after ignorin' Marina when she keeps askin' me exactly what Maribel was gonna call that kid, we're pullin' into the tour site. It's one of the preserved plantations in the state, and this one's got everything. Our lil' group gets on a cart and away we go.

"As the trees here clear away, you can see the mansion in which the planter's family would have lived in..." The guide says. It nearly takes my breath away, the house, 'cuz it looks almost exactly like the one at Big Farm, back when I was a kid. There's even a big oak tree in the side-yard, just like there always was on the farm.

I never was allowed into the house, most of my time livin' on the farm spent hidin' my blond hair and pale skin from the planter so he didn't send me to the town orphanage, but I can see how rich people livin' in the time would want stuff like flowy silk sheets and nice heavy drapes on the windows.

Soon, actually out of the mansion and goin' across the back, where the servants slept,

"Not everyone on the plantation got to live in luxury. In face, the slave cabins we're coming up on right now generally housed anywhere from eight to ten adults each, and countless children." the tour guide says.

"Izzat true, Daddy?" Maribel asks me.

"Well, I mean, it was crowded, but there was only about fifty kids to two-hundred adults on Big Farm." I tell her.

The girls are a lil' bit freaked out by the small, drafty cabins, but I remember how nice it could feel with everyone close and tellin' stories and makin' shadows in the fire. Sure, sometimes when it was cold, it was miserable, but those days were outshined by the nice warm nights where all us boys hardly even had blankets on us, layin' in a big pile, dreamin' what we'd be when we were all grown up and the others 'cept for me were free.

Soon, the tour is over, and usin' the government money Alfred always manages to get for me when I ask, I buy each girl somethin' from the gift shop. Marina wants a straw hat, made on site. Elise wants a book talkin' about the work days with pictures and everything, and Maribel gets a shirt that has the place's name on it.

Soon, we're on the road, bound for our next stop, the Confederate Museum, a collection of Civil War history and South Carolina's part in it. I always like to go to these places, to relive the good days of before I got involved in all this country stuff. Sure, I like havin' Nat and Maribel, but I really do miss the hot days when I'd sit on the porch with Missy Fredrickson, the planter's daughter, and tell her all about how I'd grow up to be the best and kindest planter ever in the whole South.

I'm standin' there, explainin' to the girls why there happens to be two colors of confederate uniform (most of our clothes were home-dyed and when the gray dye ran out we used this nasty yellowish color, and woe to the boy in an all-gray company with a yellow "butternut" jacket on), when someone behind me says,

"You must have a lot of interest in the subject, to know all that."

I turn around and look at a man with orange hair and green eyes, and he looks so much like someone else I once knew that I freeze for a second and then nod.

"Yes sir, I do."

"Well, why don't I take you and your kids here on a tour through some of our other things. It'll be fun!" he says.

"Er, alright." I say, and then hold my hand out to him to shake. "My name's J.G. Jones." he takes my hand, sayin',

"Shawn McGuire."

I freeze again. When I was in boarding school, in Missouri, there was a boy. He had parents who'd moved from Ireland when he was a baby, so he had red hair that was more a bright orange, and dark, dark green eyes, exactly the color of a forest in the low light of midnight. His name was Rowan McGuire, and me and him had some history. We got too close, and I ended up gettin' a whip to my back by the school's headmaster beatin' the sins outta me, which I still got scars from. I ran away after that to join the confederate army, and Row joined the union. It's alright, though, as he'd be dead anyway, bein' a human to my nation, but still, there were times in my life when I wished we could've stayed at the school and stayed friends...

"Nice to meet you." I say. "This is my daughter, Maribel, and her two friends, Marina and Elise." I point out the girls as I say their names. Shawn McGuire grins at all of us.

"Well, then, J.G., Maribel, Marina, Elise, let's start the tour, eh?"


	8. Ministory: JG and Joey get salt-pork

_**A/N: Due to a few people asking me in person and private message about J.G.'s life in the confederate army, I've decided that much like the Hetalia anime's Chibitalia clips spread among the usual show, I will intersperse these stories of young J.G.'s army life throughout the rest of the fanfic, mostly to give a light-hearted break to drama, or just because I feel like it. There is a warning though, J.G. grew up in a time where certain terms and language were perfectly alright. For example, in this story he dresses as a runaway slave, mud smeared on his face to darken his skin and all. This would never be okay in modern times, but during the civil war, to a bunch of hungry southern boys, it seemed perfectly alright.**_

_**That aside, I hope you like this sort of mini-series.**_

_**-CutelittleMouseygirl**_

* * *

We're settin' camp fer the night now, here in Company B of the Independance Brigade of the C-S-A national infantry. C-S-A stands fer Confederate States of America, and that's our country. We used to be the Southern states of the Union 'Mericans, but they was takin' our rights as free Southerners away so we se-ceded and now we're fightin' them yankees that don't want se-cession to happen. Missouri, where I joined up ain't really part of the confederacy right now, but they got confederate sympathies. Really, down here in wherever we's at now is the real country.

We're settin' down fer the night, all the wagons in a circle, like wagon trains goin' west do. We got six powder wagons, one fer each company, a hospital wagon and a food one. We ain't got much in the way of food, so Captain Johnson of our company goes to the middle of the circle and says,

"A pair of new boots to the boy here who brings me a sizable amount of game." and we all git our rifles, all twelve of us boys, and take off into the woods to git food, as bein' poor farmboys, most of us, we all know how to hunt real good. Soon, we're all seperated, the better to cover more area fer animals.

I'm sittin' in a tree, waitin' fer game to come to me. Might be a deer, might be a rabbit or a quail, might even be a brown-bear, though they don't really live anywhere but near the mountains, some of the boys who de-fected from Virgina say. I dunno how my lil' knife and .22-gauge rifle'd fair against a brown-bear. I hope it's just a deer. 'Specially when there's a rustle right under my tree branch. I aim my rifle and hope the animal don't startle at the click of it cockin'...

"Hold yer fire, fer God's sake, Jones!"

It's only Joey Coleman, one of the boys in my company. He's 19, which makes him on the older end of boys, but he's ranked Private just like us, so he runs with us. I'm 12, maybe 13 by now. Most of us are fifteen and sixteen, with Drummer Boy Benny bein' the youngest at only ten. I put my rifle up and slide down to a lower branch of my tree.

"What're you doin' here, Joey? This is my area!" I tell him.

"Well I found somethin' even better'n sittin' in a tree all night fer a couple'a rabbits." he says, "But I need the help of a good, clever boy t' git at it."

"I'm real good with a rifle, and I got the biggest knife of all'o us, and I can climb trees lightnin' fast!" I say, gettin' excited. Joey grins.

"Keep goin', and I might pick ya. How's yer actin', and how clumsy is ya?"

"Well," I start, "I kin sound jus' like a Negro, accent'n everythin'! And I kin do bird calls and make a blade'o grass whistle and I kin git blackberries without gittin' pricked, mostly, and I kin-" Joey stops me.

"Alright, J.G. The thing you'd gotta be able to do here'd be creatin' a di-version." he says.

"What's a di-ver-shun?" I ask. Joey knows a whole lotta big words 'cuz he's been all over the whole Mississippi river to hear 'em.

"A di-version's makin' a scene so's people don't notice what's goin' on behind their backs."

"Who'd we be di-versionin'?"

"Yankees." Joey says, his brown eyes sparkin' with mischeif like they always are when he's got a plan. Yankees are the name we southerners call the northern soldiers, along with bluebelly and Lincoln-boy. In return they call us secesh and grayback and rebel. Yankee companies are not to be messed with by two boys seperate from their brigade. To start, their uniforms all match, and more that just in color, unlike ours where some of our jackets look kinda alike if yer far away 'nuff. Second, there's five yankees to each of us rebels, at least. Each of their companies got a hundred trained soliders, 'stead of our companies and their fifty or so farmboys each.

"How d'ya reckon I'd get near yankees in a gray jacket, talkin' like a southerner?" I ask.

"We'll smear mud on yer face and you kin go up to 'em pretendin' to be a runaway slave. Let's hear yer so-called 'perfect Negro accent.'" he says. Always willin' to prove myself in my word, even if this time it might end with me killed or 'drawed and cornered' as they do in lynchin's, I put on the stupidest-lookin' grin I kin manage and look right at Joey.

"O' Course, o' course, missah Cole-men, if'n ya wanna heah mah ac-sent den Ah'mma do et reel, reel good, jus' fo' missah Col-men, o' course! Ah always aims tuh pleeze, sah." I say. Joey snorts and has to put his face in his sleeve for a moment to keep from laughin' too hard.

"Alright, alright..." he starts, lookin' at me, and then he does it again. "Y'know, the funniest thing is'at ya sound jus' like a real Negro boy!" he finally says.

"I was raised on a cotton plantation! Of course I know how 't sound like that!" I say, grinnin' fer real now.

"That's great. Now, we gotta cover yer face in mud so ya look even darker'n that tan ya got goin'. And I got a raggedy ol' straw hat we kin put ya in to hide that blond hair, and we'll even run blackberry juice through it to try'n make it less light. Whadda yer shirt and pants look like?" I show him my outfit I've had since I was just a kid of a cotton shirt with a bunch of patches on it and blue pants just as old. "Perfect. Put that on, Jones. I'm gonna git us a barrel of salt pork that'll last a month!"

I'm hidin' behind a tree now, with Joey up in it. I wrinkle up my nose against the layer of mud makin' my face feel stiff. I look exactly like a Negro in the dark, and even though I ain't got the flat nose and puffy-lipped look of a pureblood, maybe they'll think I'm a real dark mulatto. Plus, yankees don't know nothin' 'bout pureblood Negroes, them not bein' slaveholders. I been told to say my pale blue eyes ain't entirely natural, which is why I run away to start with, 'cuz the Mister on the plantation I ran from don't like it, if asked.

So, I dart across in front of the gaurds, and one of 'em shouts,

"Hey! Who goes there! Stop or I'll shoot, rebel scum!"

I screech to a stop and slink in front of him, whimperin' out,

"Ah'm sorry, so sorry tuh've scared yew, missah... Ah jes' was runnin' from cruel mean Massah Thomphson and Ah ain't tryin' tuh make no trouble, yuh heah? Ah'm jes' a po' po' boy runnin' from a cruel massah tuh join da fight o' missah Lincoln, 'n y'all lookin' like yuh kin help me out wif dat, bein' boys in blue, am Ah right?" the yankee gaurd motions his friend over, which is exactly what Joey needs to happen. The one yankee holds a lantern up to me to look at me in the half-light.

"If you're a runaway slave, why do you have blue eyes, son?" I swallow hard like I'm nervous and I really am. I don't wanna be drawed and cornered.

"Ah got born dis way, sah. Massah Tomphson wuz always terrible mean tuh me 'cuz no Negro boy got borned wif blue eyes never. It ain't nat-ur-al-like. Ah runned 'way 'cuz I ain't gun' take it no more, no sah!" I say the last part makin' myself look as determined as possible. The gaurds look at each other and then back at me. This ain't something I ever thought I'd find myself doin', but here I am, pretendin' to be a runaway, talkin' to bluebelly guards.

"What's your name?"

"Mah name's Billy. Dat's who ah is, and dat's who ah always will be, sah."

"Do you have a last name, Billy?"

"No, sah, Massah never gaved me one." I really hope Joey does his signal soon. It's the bark of a dog, like a hound lookin' fer me. It's my cue to dart off into the forest and circle back around to our camp.

"Hmm." says the gaurd who asked me about my eyes. He turns to talk with his partner like I can't hear. "Seems like a rebel trap- send a slave boy to us, he goes off and tells them where we are."

"I don't know..." replies the other. "Maybe the boy really does want to get away."

"What if he's really a rebel in a diguise? A spy?"

"He's a ten-year-old kid, Jack. I think he really is in trouble." _I'm twelve you yankee morons._ I think at them, frownin'.

"What Negro has blue eyes?"

"What southerner would be willing to dress up as a Negro slave to fool us?" in the end, that one wins out, as no southerner is desperate 'nuff to pretend to be a slave, 'cept unless they're a boy from a hungry company lookin' to git food, I 'spose. They turn back to me.

"Billy, we can't take you with our brigade, but we can arrange transport north for you."

"Thank yah very kindly, sahs, but Ah'd rather tuh make mah own way up der, so's ah might pick up mah muthah 'n sistah n' bruthahs 'long the way." I say. Just then, thankfully, I hear a badly done version of a coonhound's bay. Joey's signal. "Dat doggone dog's been followin' me fer prolly dah whole night, Ah sweah. Ah'd bes' be gone a'fore he finds me. So long t' y'all n' thank ya fer offerin' yer help tuh a po' boy like me! Hurr-ah fo'da Union, right?" I run off to the woods and then circle around, wipin' dried-on mud off my face as I go.

"Ah man, that accent!" laughs Joey.

"Shaddup. Did you git the stuff?" I ask.

"Yeah, I got it... kin ya do one of them high-bred southern ladies, though?"

I roll my eyes and then make 'em real big and bat my eyelashes and fan myself a bit, "Oh mah stars, I do _de_-clare, ah might jes' bash ol' Joey's head in if he don't stop laughin' at me this in-stant!" I say, crossin' my arms as I finish.

"Anyway, care to help me with this barrel, Billy?"

"Shut yer mouth and git rollin'." I say.

* * *

Captain Johnson turns to look at the two of us as we come back, rollin' the barrel.

"Coleman! Jones! Where were you two?!" he barks.

"That don't matter, do it, sir? We got salt-pork!" Joey says back, grinnin' in the light of the fires around the camp.

"Where at?" Captain Johnson asks.

"Around." Joey and I both say after lookin' at each other. We ain't really allowed to steal from yankees, but Joey is of his opinion that if we take all their food fer our own selves then they won't be able to stay down South fer very long, not bein' able to hunt or tell which berries is poison or nothin'. 'Sides, only a couple'a us have ever had salt-pork before, havin' mostly gotten fresh meats our whole lives. Winter never comes in the South.

'Sides, it ain't like half our new recruits don't get their boots and trousers from yankee graves. We don't like it, and all of us of Company B think such boots and pants are haunted thanks to Benny sayin' he saw some walkin' together o' their own accord once, but we ain't got a choice, with yankees burnin' our cotton fields and us havin' no way to process cotton into cloths anyway.

"How's this sound- You both go git a load of firewood and I don't question where you came up with a sealed barrel of salt-pork."

"Yes sir!" We both say and take off into the woods.

In this way, we have food and we didn't git drawed and cornered by yankee or general neither.


	9. Chapter 8

We got stranded somewhere in the middle of nowhere in West Virginia on our way back, and Nat lectured me for half an hour over the phone when I called and said I was gonna be late gettin' back, and another half an hour when we finally got back. But first, we had to spend a night out in the middle of nowhere in West Virginia. I wasn't gonna make three six-year-old girls sleep in the truck if I could help it, so we hiked through the woods, half an hour in every direction, me takin' turns carryin' the tired, hungry girls, until we found a run-down house and a boy about twelve sittin' on the porch, cleanin' a rifle.

"Hey!" I called out, and he looked up.

"Whaddya want, stranger?" he calls back.

"Me'n my girls here got stranded up on the road, and was wonderin' if you'd help!"

"I dunno, sir! What's yer problem?"

"Flat tire 'n no way't fix it 'til the mornin' when the men kin come 'n do it!" I say.

"Well we hain't gon' be able t' fix that, but I'll ask Pop if'n y'all kin stay fer the night!" With that, he runs off into the house, prob'ly to find his pop. I look around the yard, the three girls huddlin' close to me. I taught Maribel to be weary of strange people, and the other two likely were told the same, livin' in New York their whole lives.

There's a chicken-wire fence set up around some crooked posts, and a run-down henhouse against the side of the little house. There's an old droopy-faced hound chained in the middle of the yard, who just kinda raised his head up and wagged his tail a few times upon seein' us there. There's old car tires and other metal equipments scattered around, as well as a plastic take-apart playground meant for a very small child. Soon, the boy in his ragged shorts and T-shirt shows up with a man wearin' nothin' but patched overalls. I stand up straighter as he looks me over.

"What's yer name?" he asks.

"J.G. Jones, sir." I say.

"What about the lil'uns?"

"Maribel, Marina and Elise." I say back.

"Alright." he says, the turns to the boy. "Georgie, go'n tell yer ma she gonna have four guests come breakfast!" the boy scampers inside. "Y'all kin sleep in the barn. Should be some blankets and things there."

"Thank you fer yer hospitality, sir." I say.

"What kind of a man would I be if I din't let a man with three young'uns stay a night if he needed?" he asks of me.

"Daddy, I'm hungry!" Maribel says, pullin' at my pant-leg, and the other two agree.

"If it ain't to much trouble, kin we maybe git somethin' fer 'em? They're only little, after all..." I ask the man. He nods, just as a plump, brown-haired woman in a simple night-dress appears.

"Goodness! When Georgie tol' me guests I din't figure he meant children! Come on in, dears, and lemme heat up some cornpone 'n chicken, maybe some warm milk fer the girls, come on, now. Would'ya like some liquor, sir? Finest in Mineral county!" she says, lettin' us inside to the small, warm kitchen table.

"No, ma'am, I'll just take sweet tea, if you got some." I say. She sets the glass in front of me in a moment, as well as the warmed milk for the three girls.

"Now tell me, hun, how'd you 'n yer young'uns end up all the way out here?" she asks, movin' around the kitchen and gettin' the food on the stove to heat.

"We was drivin' home from a trip out to Allan and ended up gettin' a flat on the way back home." I say.

"Terrible luck. Where're y'all comin' from?"

"New York's where we all live."

"Strange. You don't sound like yer from up North." she says.

"I ain't. I'm from Allan, but I live in New York." I tell her. She sets a steamin' plate in front of each of us. Cornpone is cornmeal mush, fried and drippin' in gravy. It's one of the best corn-based foods you can get, I think. Marina and Elise, bein' city girls look kinda suspicious. Prob'ly been told by their daddies to not take a stranger's food.

"Yer some kinda cook, ma'am." I say, grinnin' at her.

"Aw, I bet you say that to all the women who give it to ya fer free!" she says, still smilin' at the fact I like it. Elise and Marina are eatin' too, now. Guess their hunger overrid whatever they'd been told.

After we eat, we head off to the barn, the older boy Georgie showin' us how to climb up into the hayloft. The girl's can't do it, even after bein' shown it five times, so I kick off my boots and scramble up the horse-stall fence, hook my toes into the rough support beam and pull myself up with no problems, havin' Georgie hand me each of the girls so they can get up.

"Gosh, Mister, where'd you learn t' climb like that?" the boy asks me in wonder.

"I grew up on a farm just like this, only bigger. Of course I know how'ta climb into a hayloft!" I say, puttin' Marina down. She likely would'a insisted on keepin' the challenge of goin' up on her own, but she's tired, like the rest of 'em.

"What'd ya grow there?" Georgie asks me as he helps me to spread out the blankets. "We mostly grow corn and veggies to sell in town."

"I grew up in South Carolina, on a cotton farm." I tell him. "You ever seen a cotton bush before?"

"Nope, never in my life!"

"It's about waist-high on a grown adult, and in the summertime it gets white puffs on the ends of the branches. One of my jobs used to be collect the bags of fluff that the workers pick from the puffy bits and run it through a machine to pick the seeds out."

"Wowie! I'm glad I don't have'ta do that! It sounds mighty dull." he drops down to the floor and calls out, "Well, g'night, Mister Jones! Seeya in the mornin'!"

* * *

In the mornin' we waste no time in gettin' out of the house and back to the truck, where a man soon comes along and changes the tire. I would'a done it myself, but I didn't have the tools. When we finally get back to New York, Gilbert, Joel and Nat are all waitin' to hear why exactly I happened to be a day late returnin' with the girls.

So, everything is normal again- Nat's mad a me over some decision I made and opinion I got, and Maribel goes back to the daycare with her friends. Soon, there's another UN conference occurin', and Nat says because I'm part of a country I need to go.

This one's in London.


	10. Chapter 9

"It's gonna be fun, 'cuz I ain't never been on a plane before!" Maribel's tellin' her doll. "And I'll take care of you, too! Daddy says yer ears might pop, but that's alright, 'cuz I got my own pack of chewin' gum to make it better with, and I'll give you some if you promise not to swallow it!"

I just sigh. I've been standin' here for half an hour while they search all the other people before us. I ain't never been good at standin' still, so I'm sorta rockin' on my feet, shiftin' from one to the other, and even tried spinnin' around at one point. Eventally, Alfred shows up and says he's got a private flight arranged for all us national delegates, as this ain't goin' nowhere fast, and we should just all go and sit and wait for it.

Ugh.

That would be just as bad as standin' in line, but then someone asks me,

"Hey, can I sit next to you?" which distracts me, and I look up.

His hair is like mine, with the bit down his nose, but it's messy. It's mostly a dirt-brown, but has streaks of all colors in it. He's got lavender eyes, like Alfred's brother's, and he's real pale, like he ain't in the sun much, really close to how Arthur's skin is. What really shocks me, though, is what he's wearin'.

This brown-haired man is wearin' a sorta fluffy pink dress, with a blue open jacket coverin' his shoulders. This is an alright outfit, not horrible in any way, just, it's a girl's outfit on a _man._ Not really gettin' an answer from me as I try to process his bizzare appearance, he just stands there.

"Er, I mean, who are you?!" I manage to get out. He blinks and then answers.

"I'm Jacob. Jacob Jones. I represent the American Midwest. May I sit with you, Southerner?" at first I'm wonderin' how on earth he figures I'm Southern, but then I realize I have that thick accent I always have, and pretty much anyone who's native-born to here knows what region it comes from. I try to remember where the Midwest is, but come up blank. I think it's North somewhere.

"Why're you wearin' that outfit, and around kids, too, Jacob Jones?" I ask him instead of admittin' I don't know where he's from.

"There's not really anything wrong with a boy wanting to wear traditionally 'girl's' clothes, right?"

"It's disturbin'." I say.

"Well that's your problem. Now, may I sit, or are you just going to argue with me?" he smiles brightly at me and then plops himself down when I motion to the chair next to me.

"So, I know you're southern, but are you and Al the only other ones?" he asks me.

"There's Alfred. He's the main one. The rest of us I think are just split-off from him. 'Cept me. I'm my own nation." I say, lookin' down at my phone. 12:33 PM, twenty minutes to our flight bein' in, accordin' to Alfred. Twenty minutes to be stuck talkin' to this strange man in a dress.

"Lemme guess... You're... Hmm... Nation that's made of southerners..." he thinks really hard about it, like he really don't know. I sigh loudly and make sure my Southern Pride T-shirt is very obvious to help him. I don't like it when people don't know nothin' about my home. Eventually, his eyes do land on the shirt, and then he huffs.

"Oh, you side with those awful intolerant confederates... and you were cute, too!" he pouts. Then he grins, "Wait! You must be the one that was made when the Civil War happened! The Confederate States!"

I'm still tryin' to recover from that 'you were cute, too' comment, my face all hot from the disgust of it, but I manage to nod. When I've recovered more, I look at Jacob Jones kinda suspiciously.

"Hey, how'd you know Al before Alfred, anyway?"

"Well, all us 2p nations have to stick together, don'tcha know?"

"You're 2p?" I ask. Accordin' to Alfred, the 2ps are a result of Arthur messin' up a magical spell of his that either created them or merged the universes we both inhabited, dependin' on who you're talkin' to, that bein' Oliver or Arthur. I dunno about that, but I know I ain't seemed to have a 2p self before now, but Jacob seems to be opposite enough to me...

"Yeah! Wait... Al and Alfred are 2p and 1p... do ya think you and me are too?" he asks.

"I really hope not as that'd make me related to you and yer stupid crossdressin'." I say. Just then, Alfred shows up.

"Hey, who's the new guy?" he asks.

"Jacob Jones, 2p crossdresser and a pain in the ass." I say.

"No, I'm not a pain! I'm the American Midwest." he says, grinnin' at Alfred.

"Sheesh, how many of me are there?" Alfred asks.

"There's you, me, Al and the confederate!" Jacob says. Alfred looks at me as if expectin' me to say something to that. When I don't he just asks,

"He called you a confederate. Doesn't that offend you like literally everything else in existence?"

"Ain't no reason to be offended. He's right." I answer. "And anyway you act like I'm easily offended."

I dunno why, but after I say that, Alfred just shakes his head and Nat sittin' on my other side makes this sort of snortin' sound, like she's tryin' not to laugh.

"Well I'm not." I say, crossin' my arms.

"Okay. I'll get you a shirt to wear to your next NRA protest that says 'don't worry, I'm not easily offended' and we'll see if WalMart lets you stay longer." Alfred says.

"I feel like yer tryin' to make fun of me."

"Oh wow," Jacob says, "he's on to you! Better be careful, Alfie!"

"And that's scar-casm." I say, glarin' at both of 'em. Jacob just starts laughin'. I hear Nat sigh and then get up.

"South, the word is 'sar-casm.'" Alfred says. Again with the 'South' business.

"That's another thing, Alfred! You know my real name, so why not use it?" I ask him.

"'Cuz it feels weird. You're kinda a part of me I kinda wanna forget happened... I mean..." he does the thing where he scratches the back of his head, "That came off sounding kinda mean, didn't it? Sorry..."

"I understand. You don't want me to exist, but I do anyway, so you think by ignorin' the problem it'll go away, right?" I say, crossin' my arms again.

"Well, I mean, when you put it that way..."

"Well, I'm stuck with you, 'cuz I ain't got a whole other country to run off to. I could jus' ignore you, but where'd that git me, huh? You think I wanna be ruled by some idiot yankee government? If it were up to me, I'd still be my own nation, and I know we'd do it damn better'n you! Yer glorious yankee democracy is collapsin' on itself, and I seem to be the only one who kin see it!" I shout at him, gettin' up and stompin' off, not even carin' about the chair I knocked over on my way.

I end up sittin' at an airport diner, playin' with a fork and some ice water, as I'm too poor to afford anything else, as usual.

"Would you like to finish up this tea, sir? My shift ends in a few moments and I need the pot to be fresh." the waitress asks me. "It's free." she adds as I start to look like I ain't gonna take it.

"If you put ice in it and lemme at them sugar packets with it too, we got a deal." I say.

"Alright. Here." she says, pushin' the button on the ice machine. It sputters and crackles and pours ice into the mostly-empty pitcher. She sets the pitcher in front of me, along with the sugar packets.

"Never did understand people who like iced tea." she says as way of conversation.

"Never did understand them that don't." I say back, the irritation in my voice really showin'.

"Huh, you sound cheerful. What happened? Find out your girl's cheatin' on you?" she asks of me.

"Nah. Nat'd never do that." I say.

"I'd find it pretty easy to cheat on a confederate sympathizer." she says, indicatin' my shirt. "But I guess racism and intolerance just isn't my thing."

"I don't care 'bout none of that." I say, rippin' one of the packets to put into the pitcher, "I just wanna show my pride fer the place I was born and raised." I stir it around with the fork and taste a bit. Yuck, not nearly sweet enough yet. I tear open three more packets. "My... I 'spose... brothers... they don't think it's right, but I guess how it is is, I know the south ain't done good things, I know it... but I love it anyway, y'know? Like a kid that's grown up to be a dumbass deadbeat. You're that kid's mama, you ain't gonna love him less, jus' 'cuz he's made awful stupid choices in his life. That's how I feel."

"I suppose there is something to be said for aknowledging your ancestors, even if they're awful." she agrees. Just then, Al comes runnin' up.

"Hey, J.G., come on, Alfred says we gotta-" he stops and smirks as he sees the waitress, "heeyy good lookin'... you ever screwed a guy with a pierced d*ck before?"

"Oh _please_." she sighs. "I, as a forty-year-old married woman, have a habit of not screwing little boys, pierced or not." Al looks like he's gonna say somethin' else to that, but I interrupt.

"Thanks for the sweet tea, ma'am." I say, then grab Al's arm and drag him away. Once we're a good distance, I grab him by the front of his stupid punk-rock-band shirt. "Yer an idiot, y'know? A stupid, perverted idiot!"

"Glad to see your vocabulary's gotten better since the last time I saw you." he says.

"Just shut yer mouth and tell me where we're goin'. And don't git distracted by any more..." it occurs to me, as the young lady about my age wearin' the croptop and the tight, high-up shorts walks by, that it's been a while since Nat and I had some fun. I shake the thought out of my head real fast. Ain't no way I'm gonna cheat on her. I ain't that kind of guy. I feel bad for just thinkin' of it now. I stick my hands in my pockets for a moment and come up with some little squishy-ball-thing Nat gave me to combat my fidgetin', back when we were sittin' and waitin' for the plane. I put it back. I dunno how bored I'll be on this fight, so I'd best keep everything I got.

I've lost Al again while I was distracted, so I look around for him. He's over at the girl I was lookin' at and chattin' with her. Now she's gettin' close to him and blushin'. Now they're kissin'. Now he's got his hand on her breast... In public. Yuck. He must've gotten her to come with him somewhere, 'cuz they're leavin' now, and I follow. They go into some door, and I just sit on the nearby bench, thinkin' on how some people are just so disgustin' I can't even stand 'em.

Soon, Al and his apparently new girlfriend leave wherever they were, him adjustin' his belt and her fixin' her hair.

"Wow, Alphonse... I never knew it would feel that good to do a guy who's pierced!" she breathes, just as they get into my range of hearin'. I make a face like that comment's makin' me feel sick.

"I never knew a cute little thing like you could know how to do all that." Al says back. I squish the urge to make a loud gaggin' sound. Al hands the girl her cell phone back. "Here, I put my number in there... next time you're in New York, call me!"

"Oh I will..." she says, "and if you're ever transferred to John Motson High in Austin, let me know!" Al blinks.

"Wait, how old are you again?"

"I'm fifteen, a sophomore." she says. "We came here for our band trip!"

This time I actually do gag, and Al's face looks bright red. Dear God, to think a teenage girl made me consider cheatin' on my wife... I don't even care what Al's thinkin', I'm more horrified at the way this girl looks. If Maribel ever tried to go out, on a school trip no less, lookin' like that... Ugh! The girl herself just looks confused.

"What's wrong, Alphonse?" she asks. "How old are you? Oh God, are you like, some creepy thirty-year-old?!"

"N-no, not that" Al manages out. "You're just... I'm like, nineteen..."

"Ugh, you pedo!" she yelps in disgust, runnin' off. Al looks to me for help. I just shrug.

"She ain't wrong, pedo."

He whacks me on the shoulder, smirk in place.

"Shuddup. Come on, Alfred's gonna throw a fit if we're any later."

I think I might be growin' kinda fond of Al and his rough, perverted ways.

* * *

"_There_ you two are!" Alfred says, but his grin says he ain't mad. As we get onto the plane, he pulls me to the side.

"Look, you're right... my ignoring that you exist, and that your people probably always will isn't right... I guess I should just accept that you're gonna be here, and try to get to know you. What do you think of that, J.G.?" I smile at him.

"Y'know, one thing I've been told a million times is I hold grudges too long, but with you, Alfred, it's near impossible to stay mad. Come'ere." and with a back-pattin' hug exchanged, Alfred and I are now on good terms, and probably will be as long as we both exist, I hope. The nation may be on the edge of splittin' up again, and I'd be one of the first Southern boys out there fightin' if it did, but for now, I'm alright with where we're at.

The jet is luxury, with us nations getting free reign. I find this out when Arthur, stinkin' of alcohol and a bottle in hand slings his arm around me and laughs, slurrin',

"This plane's rea' good, innit? 'S got booze'n eve'thin'!"

"Yeah. It's nice." I agree, tryin' to push him away.

"'Ey, 'ey, you ain't gettin' rid 'o me tha' easy, Alfie-baby!" he giggles, huggin' me closer.

"I'm J.G., Arthur." I say, tryin' to push him off again.

"Like bleedin' 'ell you are, Alfie! Quit tryin'a fool me jus' 'coz you don' wan' me!" at this point he starts cryin' into my shoulder, whimperin', "Why don' you wan' me?" I pat him on the head in what I hope is a comfortin' manner.

"I like you fine, Arthur, just, please leggo..."

"Mmm, no." he says, nuzzlin' on my neck, which I can tolerate, until he starts kissin' me there. Then I shove him down.

"Arthur!" I yelp, my voice crackin' and my face hot. He staggers to his feet, a sort of gleam in his eye.

"Ah, playin' 'ard to get, are we? Well I'll play wi' you awright..." he pushes me against the wall and pulls my shirt up and he's kissin' me and lickin' me and I scream,

"ARTHUR, GIT OFFA ME!" loud as I can and it seems like no one's heard me as his hands go to my belt buckle and he's murmerin' into my neck,

"Shh, Alfie 's not gonna 'urt you, not mushh..."

And then I've had more'n enough and haul back and punch him hard as I can. He goes down, and I take off, and end up back in my seat, breathin' hard. Nat comes back soon after, lookin' funny at me and holdin' some kinda clear stuff in little bottles which I drink two of, findin' that they're vodka. I don't mind. I need somethin' to calm down, after all.

Honestly, I prob'ly should get used to male nations thinkin' I'm attractive given the current record with 'em, but the very thought makes my stomach crawl. I drink another one of the mini-vodka bottles and sink into my seat.

* * *

_**A/N: Introducing 2p!J.G.! He's super progressive and always into new trends, and also is very Midwestern because the Midwest is like the opposite side of the country from the South. He's also what me and my friends have grown to call a "business 'murican."**_


	11. Chapter 11

We've been on this flight for a good long time. It's been so long, in fact, that many of the nations are bored, and usin' the limitless alcohol to their advantage in that boredom. I had a couple drinks, but I'm mostly alright, at least, I think I am, 'til I fall over as the plane bumps a bit to one side. I pull myself up, smilin' at how stupid I prob'ly looked.

"Oops." I tell Nat who gives me an eyebrow raise. Maribel's off with the other kids in the kids' cabin, so we're given freedom to do what we want without worryin' about 'em overmuch. There's a bunch'a kid-nations from about age 10 to 15 to watch over 'em anyways.

"J.G., I never thought you the type to like gettink drunk to pass the time." Nat says.

"I ain't drunk. You ain't seen me real, real drunk, that's fer sure or you'd never think I was." I tell her, tryin' to get back to my feet which ain't easy given the whole floor's tryin' to tip sideways on me. I fall back over soon and sort of try sittin' there 'til I feel less dizzy.

"Hmm." is all she says before turnin' back to her tablet. Nat's tryin' to be a sophisticaded lady, and therefore not drinkin'. I think she ain't no fun sometimes.

Eventually, I get it in my head to go find more drinks, as I really ain't too drunk just yet, and so I make my way down the aisle. Jacob's fallen asleep sprawled across two leaned-back chairs and is droolin' a bit. He looks almost cute like that, but I shake the thought away quick and keep on my way. Jacob had told us earlier that he's gotta fly lotsa places fer his job. I don't remember 'xactly what kinda jobs there are in the Midwest, but ain't it like, Chicago and stuff? Ain't that where gangs are?

Ain't Jacob too white to be in a gang town?

I hear muffled sounds comin' from an unlocked bathroom, so I decide to poke my head in. I wish I hadn't. It's Alfred and Nat's commie brother, and Alfred's got his hands put behind his back with what looks like his own belt, and neither of 'em are wearin' pants and the Russian's got him hands on Alfred, and dear God, the things they're sayin' to each other, Alfred in broken Russian I only half understand, but it ain't clean, that's fer sure. They kiss in a real heated way and I quick shut the door. I'm real ashamed to admit that I thought that did look a lil' bit fun. With Nat, of course. Never with Alfred or the commie, ever.

I quick manage to make my way to the cabinet, grab whatever I got my hands on, and try to make it back across the plane. I manage to only fall down twice, mostly 'cuz I crawled halfway. Planes gotta learn to be less bumpy. I climb back into my seat and Nat looks over as I try to get the cap off of the bottle.

"I never knew you liked gin, J.G." she says. Yuck. Figures, not takin' the time to figure out what's in the bottle, I grab the nastiest one. I don't wanna tell Nat that I wasn't lookin' so I try to say "shut up" and "It's good." at the same time and end up sayin',

"Shut it good." and havin' Nat give me a funny look.

"I don't think you should be havink that." she says, tryin' to take the bottle. I hold it over my head and 'cuz Nat's only about five-foot-three she can't get to it. "J.G.!" she hisses, "Give it here!"

"You gotta git it first!" I say, and then get a real good idea. "Or, you kin kiss me fer it!"

She rolls her eyes and goes in for it, and I end up with her on my lap and she's startin' to pull my shirt up and un-button her jacket and then she grabs the bottle from me and gets up.

"Hey!" I cry out. "I was havin' fun!"

"You're drunk." she says, "And so you will not have this, or me."

I give her a puppy-dog look, sayin, "Aww, come on, Nat..." and she just sighs.

"You'll regret it in the mornink."

"I don' care. I know what I want and I intends to git it."

"You're pretty cute like this, I must admit." she says, comin' back to her spot on my lap. We're kissin' again soon and she pulls away again after a while. "We should find a private place. The bathroom, perhaps?"

"Nah. Yankee-boy and the commie are doin' dirty stuffs in there." I say.

"If it were several years ago I would go threaten to stab Big Brother for touchink the American instead of me." she says, smirkin'. "But now, I have my own very cute little American that I can touch all I wish..."

With that, she kisses me again, and we don't even care no more that there's people watchin' us, probably.


	12. Chapter 12

It's a very irritable and hungover batch of nations that get off the plane and go in a herd to the all kinda go to our rooms, me carryin' Maribel who's fallen asleep, and collapse. Things look to be goin' great, and the summit's tomorrow.

I wake up the next morning, my headache gone, and the feelin' that I done something terrible. Nat looks at me from her spot by the hotel room TV and sighs.

"I was just goink to be wakink you up. We're goink to be late for the first meetink if you don't hurry."

I jump up and run into the wall, forgettin' that I ain't in my own room, (Nat snorts at me) then recover and hurry to at least wash my face and run a comb through my hair. As usual, I get real close to the mirror to look for any weirdness on my face. There's a couple new freckles, I think, startin' to make a bridge across my nose, but that's alright, as I work in the sun, so I would get new ones. After all, God tries to protect white farmboys from sunburns by makin' 'em get freckles in the place where sunburn hurts the most, on the face and shoulders. Sarah, the lady who brought me up on the plantation told me that when I asked why none of the dark-skinned slave boys got freckles like I did.

My eyes are still the pale blue of the way ice-crystals look on TV, which must be 'cuz I was born in winter, on December 20, which was the day South Carolina seceded in 1860 to form my country. I've got a couple dull purple-blue marks on my collarbone, which I learned the first time I got 'em is where someone bites you in the heat of passion. Nothin' I can't hide with a shirt, though.

"J.G., you need to wear a proper tie. This is a real summit, not a crisis meetink like before." Nat says from the doorway. She's talkin' about the first time I ever went to a UN conference, which was right after the 9/11 attacks. Alfred, who hadn't even seemed to care if I was alive or dead for a hundred years contacted me and told me to come in a hurry to New York. That's where I met Nat, too, is at the conference.

"Yeah, I hear ya." I say. I don't like ties. They feel like they're tryin' to choke me. But I gotta wear it if I gotta wear it. I let Nat put the thing on my neck and gently tighten it.

"There, that should be good." she says. I look in the mirror. I've gone back to wearin' my old suspenders, as I think it makes me look more proper. Nat thinks with my red flannel and my suspenders and boots I look like an old-fashioned country man (or a lumberjack, as Al always seems to sing that damn song about 'em when he sees me dress like that). I think Nat's only half right. I am, after all, only nineteen, on the outside, and just a baby to the other nations at about a hundred fifty otherwise.

"Where's Maribel?" I ask.

"Oh, she and her friends are off with the micro-nations. I thought it might be better to keep her out of the meetink which she may find borink." Nat answers. The micro-nations are a bunch of nation kids, who range in age from little Wy who's twelve to Seborga who's fifteen. They seem alright, so I don't got a problem with 'em watchin' my kid for a few hours.

"Now, because this is a formal conference, you need to speak as formally as you are able." Nat tells me. That pretty much means I gotta- have to clean up my way of talkin'- talking for the duration of the thing. It means I can't say 'ain't' or 'gonna' or 'wanna' or use 'don't got' when I can say 'don't have' and all the other rules the headmaster at my school in Independence, Missouri tried to make me follow. Jacob is pretty sure Missouri is Midwestern and I maintain that they're Southern and would'a been Confederates if we hadn't been conquered and reconstructed. Nat reminded me that it ain't polite to fight with someone you just met, so I told Jacob that I don't fight girls and left it at that.

"Aww, c'mon, Nat! Don'tcha know Ah kin talk plen'y good whan Ah wanna?" I say, grinnin'. She just sighs and pulls me out the door to the meeting building.

* * *

"Today our subject will be the recent economic downfall at- Southern US, please refrain from putting your head down, thank you..." the German one goes on and on. I just sigh and start to jigglin' my leg without really thinkin' much about it. I only realize I'm doin' it when Alfred nudges me and hisses,

"You're shaking the whole table! Cut it out!"

"Sorry." I hiss back. "Hard to sit still fer so long." I say as a reason why. Alfred nods slightly and raises his hand up.

"Yes, America?" the German asks.

"We've been here for like, an hour. Can we have a break?"

"It has only been fifteen minutes since the last one. No." he says and keeps goin' on. "...And so, we can conclude that- Southern US, please pay attention!"

I had this problem at school, too, where my fidgetin' and lack of attention span usually ended in me gettin' my backside switched in front of the whole class or my hand findin' itself whacked with a stingin' ruler. Glad they don't do that here.

"Southern US, since you are fidgeting so much, perhaps it is because you have something to speak on, hmm?" Germany finally says. I shake my head.

"No, sir, I don't." I say.

"I'm sure you do. When you are ready." he says, sittin' down and glarin' at me to get up and do it. I ain't got nothin', but I 'spose I better think of somethin', or I'll look like an idiot, which I think is my punishment for not payin' enough attention. Honestly I'd rather take the switch then be embarrassed this way. I sidle up to the whiteboard at the front of the room, and smile nervously at the bored nations.

"Er... I..." I start, "Well, uhm... Texas said they want-to secede 'gain. I don't think that's likely, as it'd mean my glasses going away and I kind-of need those." Then, it hits me. Ain't I seen this done a million times, to divert things and win the audience, in my two hundred years?

"But, that ain't- isn't interesting, is it? Why don't y'all raise your hands up and I'll call on you and you can tell me world issues which I don't much keep up on, or stuff even back home in my country, and that way we'll get value-ble im-put on good topics!" This gets a bit more interest and Alfred, helpin' me, raises his hand. I grab a ruler and point at him.

"America, what's your topic?"

"What's the 'world's crop?' Rice or something else, do you think?"

"I'd feel inclined to say cotton, as that's what I grew up growin', but that ain't really the whole world no more." I say. "So prob'ly rice. We grow rice in Florida and South Carolina. Peanuts too. And cotton, of course. Wheat's pretty important, as ain't that where bread comes from?" I say. "So far as I'm concerned, as a part-time farm owner, my cotton plants and the wheat and corn I feed my workers with is most important."

Alfred nods. A few more hands pop up. I point out a young African girl nation I don't know the name of, sayin, "Your nation name, too, please, Miss."

"Kenya. You're the former confederate, right? The ones who left the US for a time?"

"Yes, Miss, that I am." I answer.

"So... what about the race issues still going on in your nation?" she smiles at me in a sad way, "I'm sorry to be the one to bring it up, but I just want to know..." She sounds a lil' British. Prob'ly grew up with Arthur. I always thought other nations were left to run their own lives and grow that way, like me, but then I learned that some, like Alfred, were brought up by older nations.

"I don't find many race issues still goin' on." I say. "I guess my daughter called her black classmate a bad name once, but that's my fault for sayin' it one time around her on accident." a bunch of the nations just sigh. Al asks me,

"What exactly, did she say?" and I swear he's just tryin' to either see if I'll say it, which I ain't shy about, or get some sort of reaction from me.

"Um, she called him a 'damn dirty n_.'" I say. The entire room kinda went quiet, as people do when you say that word like it's nothin', I've noticed. I grew up hearin' it, so I guess I'm sorta de-sensitized.

"Hah, I've been called that." Al says. "And delinquent along with it." Well, at least he didn't gasp in horror, or punch me or whack me with a purse or kick me or something, all of which has been done to me before.

"I can't say I'm shocked. Lookit you. Did Oliver buy you at an auction and then discover your nation nature and adopt you?" I ask. People are glarin' at me, but I'm used to that too. Yankees don't care much for a Southerner with very Southern views.

"Pfft, no. I was born to him, like any other kid."

"How did a white Frenchman and a white Englishman make a brown kid?" I ask. "Is that what happens when you homo couples try'n have babies?"

"Nah." Al says, and won't answer any more questions about it. That accomplished, I sit back down and Arthur stands up.

"Thank you, Southern US. Now, do any other US representitives have anything to add?" Jacob raises his hand. He's wearin' a black suit with a tie the same lavender as his eyes. Arthur points at him.

"Ah yes, our newcomer. Your name and nation, as well, please?"

"Jacob Jones, Midwestern US." he says, standing up. Alfred's hand shoots up suddenly. Jacob silently points him out.

"Hey, aren't you the CEO of Humanonautics, that toy corporation that basically owns everything?" Alfred asks. Jacob smiles.

"Yes, that's right!" Jacob says cheerfully. "And I want to throw in some ideas about this year's election!"

It's 2012, and our choices here for the president are re-elect the useless black man Obama or vote for a competent man like Romney. I know he ain't the smartest sometimes, but surely he'd run the country better'n someone who's more suited to cotton-pickin'. Nat says for someone who's family's as poor as us I have some real strange social views. I don't much understand what she means by that. Al says it means that being someone as clumsy as me, it seems like I should _want_ free healthcare.

"I think keeping Obama in office would be a great idea for the peoples' wellbeing, but corporations are going to get taxed more, which isn't good for businesspeople like me!" Jacob says. The rest of the nations look to us other three Americans to see what we got to say.

"I think you make enough money on your own, and shouldn't care if you have to pay a couple more percents in taxes!" That's Al, and I do feel a little inclined to agree- If we gotta have taxes, may as well make 'em equal 'cross the board, 'stead'a makin' the rich pay less. I ain't much for any taxes, though. The less the yankee government gets in my life the better. Al's next point I agree less with.

"And, Obama's made big strides in our equality, and stuff, with the gay marriage and even some laws allowing racial discrimination being repealed, which is to my interests!"

"Maybe the reason yer called a delinquent is 'cuz yer allowed to do what you want and interfere with us hard-workin' citizens!" I say.

"I agree with West," Alfred says, "But we should do it slower- like that one dude back in the Reconstruction- we should try and do it slowly, so people like South get used to the idea!"

"Whaddya mean 'people like me,' Yankee-boy?" I ask of Alfred, glarin' at him.

"Uh," Alfred says, as everyone turns to look at him. "I mean, people who aren't likely to want to change everything all at once, is all." I still glare at him, so he keeps going: "Like, you didn't wanna move here and associate with us other nations at first, right? You wanted to stay on your farm like you always had. But, eventually, you warmed up to the idea. That's what we should do as far as civil rights laws- let people warm up to the idea. It'll take longer, and more people'll die 'cuz of that, but it's less likely to be seen in twenty years as some massive riot that ended in a couple laws."

"Easy for you to say when you haven't gotten shot in the back more times'n you can count by cops!" Al says.

"Maybe you wouldn't git shot if you didn't do stuff that's illegal." I say.

"Maybe you won't get punched if you shut your white trash mouth!" Al spits back. That gets me angry and I stand up to glare at him across the table.

"You askin' fer a fight, boy?" I growl at him. Nat puts her hand on my arm and murmurs for me to _calm down, J.G., it isn't worth it..._ but I shove her hand away and keep glarin' at Al.

"Sorry, but I don't fight people who can't even spell their own country name." Al scoffs. I growl and lean in further to the table,

"You wanna keep insultin' me? See where that lands a mouthy lil' n_ boy like you?" The rest of the nations have stepped back, even Jacob and Alfred. Al just sighs.

"Man, I wish you had better insults, but what did I expect from some dumb racist hick?"

That does it, and I'm over the table and on top of him in a second, fists a'flailin' and makin' quick work of that idiot Al. I've always been told the best way to stop a bad-mouther is to punch 'em in that same bad mouth, and I'm intent on knockin' another tooth or five outta Al's stupid skull when he gits me back. He got me right in the eye which sends my head reelin' and I fall back off'a him, but he's so light I can git him off'a me real easy, and I'm about to start poundin' on him again when arms circle 'round my waist and it's Alfred pullin' me away and I start doin' all I can to get outta his iron grip, but it ain't doin' no good. It's James who's pulled Al away from the fight, and now, stuck there, held apart, we're glarin' at each other.

My eye's startin' to swell up, since none of us Americans have healed so well since the Recession, and Al's got a swollen-up eye too, and his nose looks broken, pourin' blood down his face. All-in-all, I came out the better in this fight. I glare murder at him as his brother turns him around and asks if he's alright. Alfred does the same for me, and I can see Nat's walked up next to him and is glarin' at me. I'm gonna get it now, I know it.

Back when I was a soldier, they did a thing to two boys who fought called buckin' and gaggin'. They'd tie yer hands together, make you sit down in the dirt, put yer hands over yer folded-up knees and then tie a rod to all of it to keep 'em there. They'd also tie a short piece of board in yer mouth to gag you to keep you from complainin'. I thought that was terrible, the two or three times I saw it happen to older boys in the brigade. Now that I'm grown and married, I know that Hell hath no fury like an angry woman. I almost wish I was gonna be made to sit all folded up and gagged fer a couple hours instead of whatever Nat'll probably do.

* * *

_**A/N: More stuff that I am very loosely basing J.G.'s experiences off of- The time that a girl in my AP US History class told me that for answering a question about women in the workforce in 1942 I was racist for not also mentioning the minorities. I told her "I focused on the women because that is what the question is about." and then she said "you're probably also sexist." and I stood up and told her that as a mixed-race young woman I have seen racism and sexism and am nothing like those people, and then my teacher told me to sit down because standing up to argue that be seen as threatening.**_

_**I'm 5'2. I'm gonna stand up when I argue to seem more imposing and convincing. (Also I punched a freshman a week ago but more on that in the next Author Notes I make. :3)**_


	13. Chapter 13

I had to sleep on the floor, those five days of the conference, which ain't so bad. Life goes on, as they say. When we get back to New York, Maribel is lookin' through one of her schoolbooks, when she looks up at me, and asks me,

"Daddy, what's givin' blood mean? Why'd you wanna give someone yer blood?"

"Well," I start, but then I realize I don't really know neither. "uh, I guess yer gonna have'ta ask yer mama." Maribel starts to look disappointed.

"Aww, you know I ain't a doctor!" I say, and then grin as an ad comes on the TV

_"Donate healthy, full blood at your nearest Red Cross center today!"_

"I might not know nothin' about this blood thing," I say, "but I kin go find out."

* * *

I'm standin' in front of the building with the red plus on it, and without missin' a beat, I go inside. A young woman in dark blue clothes is sitting at the front desk.

"Hello, sir, how may I help you?" she asks.

"Hello, Miss, I'm here about the blood drive I heard about on TV?" I say.

"Oh yes, of course. Can I see some ID to prove you're over eighteen?" She says, smiling. I show her my ID that confirms that I am in fact nineteen. She hands me some papers to go and fill out to see if I'm a "sutable donor."

_"Full Name"_

Jason G. Jones. That ain't acceptable, so I try and think of a good name that starts with a G. I come up with Gabriel. Yeah. That's a good, Christian name. Jason Gabriel Jones.

_"What is your born gender?"_

I dunno what exactly that means, so I just pick male. I've always been one, probably always will be.

_"Have you ever had sexual contact with another male?"_

Define "sexual contact" 'cuz one time in the meeting Gilbert grabbed my ass. Of course, right after, I turned right around and punched him out. I mark "No" for that.

_"Are you HIV/AIDS positive?"_

Hell no. Nations can't get STDs anyway, right?

_"Have you ever been exposed to possible Hepititis or HIV/AIDS in the last several months?"_

Pretty sure I ain't. Nations can't get STDs.

_"Have you ever had malaria?"_

Well yeah, ain't everyone? I mark down "yes" 'cuz I got it once when I was a kid. Got cured right up, though.

_"Has it been three years since you had malaria or lived in an area where malaria is found?"_

Well, yeah. I got it when I was twelve or thirteen, and that was in 1862.

Eventually, I hand the papers back to the nurse, and she smiles and says she'll send someone to get me shortly. In the mean time, I pull out my handheld ring toss game and shake it a bit to watch the rings go up and float back down. Ludwig, the German one, don't like it when I play with my "fidget" toys during the meetings, but he hates it more when I'm distracting the rest of the UN with my shakin' the table or drawin' on my notepad.

"Mr. Jones, come with me." The young and pretty nurse says. I follow her. She has me sit down in a chair.

"So, your full name is...?"

"Jason G- Uh, Gabriel Jones." I say.

"Why did you stutter?" She asks me calmly.

"Er, I ain't- uh, haven't had a real middle name 'til now. It wasn't never given to me, ma'am." I wince. She's young. She'll probably get all offended now since I called her a ma'am. Younger girls usually do. I dunno why. She don't, though. Instead, she smiles.

"Alright, Jason,"

"Um, if it's all the same to you, Miss, I go by J.G." I say.

"Alright, J.G.," she says, smilin', "what I have to do now, is prick your finger to test your blood for any illnesses that you might not know about. It'll hurt a little, but nothing compared to the needle they use to collect your blood for donation."

"Ah." I say, feelin' like this wasn't such a good idea as she approaches me with some sorta thing and puts it against my left middle finger. There's a click and a sharp pain in my finger, to which I flinch and hiss, "dammit..."

Soon, I'm left in the chair to my own devices, with a blue bandaid on my still-achin' finger. I'm only just figurin' out how to work the buttons on my ring toss game so it don't hurt my finger when a woman in a white coat comes in, luggin' a cart of things.

"Jason Jones?" she asks of me. I nod.

"Yes'm, that's me. But you kin call me J.G., if you like."

"Alright, J.G., we're going to save some lives!" She says grinnin'. Lookin' around at the posters in this room, I've figured that you give blood to put in people who lost blood and can't make more fast 'nuff. Seems a good cause to me.

"That gonna hurt?" I ask.

"A little, but surely a strong man like you can handle it." she says, smilin' in a flirty way at me. I make sure the ring on my left hand is very obvious after that. I ain't got time for girls who wanna flirt with a married man.

"So," I say, "you been doing this for long?" I'm trying to keep my mind off of the weird tubing and bag and needle system it appears she's puttin' together.

"About two years." She answers. "You don't sound much like a New Yorker." She, as almost everyone I talk to for an extended amount of time says.

"I moved from South Carolina a few years ago." I say.

"Hmm, I thought you sounded a little Southern." she agrees. "This is gonna hurt, alright?"

"Yes'm." I mumble, looking up and taking deep breaths as she takes my left arm, and jabs the needle in right at the crick of my elbow. "Ow!" I say at the pain.

The pain don't much fade as I sit there and squeeze on the ball once and a while. My stomach feels a lil' shaky after a while, but usin' my phone with my other hand, I don't pay it no mind. About ten minutes later, right as Nat is wondering what I happened to have gotten myself into now, the needle is removed and I am told to keep my hand over my head.

My stomach still feels like it's thinkin' of ejectin' out all the stuff inside, but I ignore the feeling and go to the table where they want me to sit. I don't much feel up to it, but I take a juice box they offer to me and sip at it, as well as takin' little bites from a chocolate chip cookie they put in front of me on a table. It's alright, 'til my head starts fuzzin' out like static on a TV.

"I don' feel so good..." I tell the woman givin' out the cookies who looks up at me with wide eyes just before everything sort of fades into the static and the last thing I know is that I hear her shout,

"NURSE!"

* * *

So, I learned things today- blood is taked from people and given to other people who can't make enough on their own. You also can pass out from it, which happened to me, and I woke up tipped back in a chair with my head lower than my knees. They made me call Nat to take me home, and that was quite the conversation.

"Hello this is Borsch Cafe, how can I help you?" It wasn't Nat, so I asked, with my head still all tipped back and my phone to my ear,

"Hi, is Natasha there?"

"Let me ask." the girl on the phone said, and I could hear her shout in Russian into the kitchen. Then the phone is picked up again. The next voice is Nat.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Nat. Can you leave early by any chance and come get me?"

"J.G.?" she sighs and tells the other girl 'never mind, Maryanne, it's just my idiot husband hurt himself again.' "Where are you and what did you do?" she asks me.

"I'm at the Red Cross on fifth and I passed out 'cuz I let 'em take blood 'cuz Maribel wanted to know why people give it." I explain. It seems simple enough to me. Maribel wanted to know something and I went and found it out.

"J.G., did you leave anybody at home with Maribel before you ran off?" Nat asks me.

"Uh..." I say. Nat sighs.

"I'll come get you. And I'll call Ivan to go watch Maribel for a while."

"Ain't no way I'm lettin' that Commie bastard near my lil' girl!" I say, and the nurse murmurs at me to calm down as I'll only elevate my blood more and make myself sick again.

"That 'Commie bastard' is my brother, Jason!" she starts, but then sighs. "Alright. I'll call someone else. Then I will come get you. Stay where you are and_ do not do anythink stupid._"

She said that last part with a lot of intensity. I guess I ought'a listen.

* * *

_**A/N: So uh this year I was finally old enough to give blood at the school blood drive and I almost passed out. I wasn't even done. I just was laying there and my stomach felt gross and I was like, "well maybe this is what having a bunch of blood harvested from you feels like" but then I started to feel all blech and fuzzy so yeah. Good times. Especially since I'm pretty scared of needles. I hope someone lived because of my three-quarter-pint of blood. That was also the day I punched a freshman. He turned and pushed me over in the crowded hallway so I socked him in the eye. It was great. He ran whining to the vice principal so I got suspended for three days for defending myself. Good times in high school, guys.**_


End file.
